In the summer of 2014, four girls vanished from a hiking trail just minutes from their camp cabin.

One moment they were laughing by the giant redwoods.

The next they were gone.

For 2 years their families searched, prayed, and begged for answers.

Police found nothing.

Not a shoe print, not a scrap of clothing.

Then in 2016, the silence broke.

A woman’s voice came over the emergency line, trembling but urgent.

She claimed her husband had a secret bunker deep in the forest and that he was involved in the disappearance of the camp girls.

Seconds later, the call cut out.

It was the first real lead in 2 years, and it would lead investigators to a place no one was prepared to see.

The recording begins with nothing but breath.

Not calm, measured breathing, but the kind that catches in the throat.

Shallow, quick, almost gasping.

It’s the sound of someone pacing while trying to decide if they should speak at all.

Then a voice comes low and shaking.

A woman’s voice.

My husband.

He’s doing bad things.

He’s involved in the disappearance of the camp girls.

I think he killed them.

There’s a pause.

3 seconds of dead air where you can hear faint rustling, the creek of a floorboard, like she’s just turned to look over her shoulder.

He has a bunker close to where they went missing.

I just can’t handle this anymore.

He’s threatened me.

My family.

The line cuts midbreath.

At the county dispatch center, the operator blinks at the sudden silence, then repeats, “Ma’am, can you hear me? Hello.

Hello.” No answer.

The call display reads, “Unavailable.” When the trace tech leans over her shoulder, he shakes his head before she even asks.

Burner phone.

Can’t pin it.

No name, no address.

The operator flags the audio, sends it straight to the task force still assigned to the cold file.

The subject line they type is the same one that’s been used again and again for 2 years.

Case 14-0723.

Sierra Pines.

Two desks away, Sergeant Tom Heler has just sat down with a paper cup of burnt coffee when the alert pings his phone.

Two years of chasing shadows, two years of false sightings, crank calls, and neighbors pointing fingers at each other.

And now this.

He reads the transcript once, then again, slower.

A bunker, not a vague claim, not some ghost story rumor, a structure, a location, and from someone close enough to the suspect to know where to find it.

In the bottom drawer of his desk is the case binder, thick, battered, edges curling from being handled too much.

He pulls it out and flips to the maps, each one layered with colored ink from past search grids.

They’ve scoured the perimeter around Camp Sierra Pines at least half a dozen times.

But if this bunker was concealed underground, camouflaged, they could have walked over it and never known.

Heler calls his captain, gets approval for immediate mobilization.

The captain asks the same question Heler’s already thinking.

Could be a hoax.

It could, Heler says.

But if it’s not, it’s the first real chance we’ve had in 2 years.

By late afternoon, an unmarked SUV is rolling north toward the campgrounds, the binder open in Heler’s lap.

Beside him, in the back seat, is Lena Moore, the sister of one of the missing girls.

She wasn’t supposed to be there.

Civilians aren’t brought to active search sites, especially not family.

But Lena has never stopped showing up.

She’s 20 now, all edges and shadows, the kind of young adult molded by grief instead of growth.

She was 14 the summer her sister Khloe left for camp.

The two of them had begged their parents to go together, but a stomach virus kept Lena home.

She remembers lying on the couch, feverish when Khloe called that first night to tell her about the cabins, the songs, the giant redwood they’d seen on the trail.

3 days later, Khloe was gone.

The SUV climbs into higher country past ranch fences and sun-faded billboards.

Heat shimmers above the asphalt.

The windows are down, letting in the scent of dry pine and the faint sweetness of campfire smoke from some distant property.

Heler studies the map, tracing the route to the Parson Jones redwood, a landmark just off the trail where the girls were last seen.

According to the call, the bunker is close to where they went missing.

That could mean a/4 mile, could mean 50 ft.

Up front, Deputy Carla Mendoza is driving.

She’s been quiet since the start, her eyes scanning every pulloff and side road.

She was on the original search detail.

Remembers how brutal the terrain was.

Steep gullies, dense undergrowth, false trails leading nowhere.

You think she’s telling the truth? Mendoza finally asks.

Heler doesn’t answer right away.

He stares out the window at the blur of trunks, the rhythm of shadows crossing the road.

If she’s lying, she’s putting a lot of detail into it, he says.

That bunker part, you can’t make that up unless you know something.

They reach the turnoff to the old camp.

The sign is still there, nailed to two leaning posts, the paint peeling.

Welcome to Camp Sierra Pines.

Letters in cheerful yellow chipped almost to white.

The camp’s been closed since the summer of the disappearance.

Cabins slump under the weight of two years neglect.

Roofs sagging, windows clouded with dust.

Nature is swallowing it.

Gravel paths cracked and split by weeds.

Vines crawling up porch rails.

Mendoza slows to a crawl as they pass the cabins, following a narrow dirt lane deeper into the property.

This is as far as we can drive, she says.

Trail starts here.

Heler closes the binder.

We go on foot.

The forest greets them with a different kind of quiet.

No highway hum, no distant dogs barking, just the faint hiss of wind through the canopy, and the occasional drip of moisture from leaf to leaf.

Pine needles crunch under their boots, each step sounding too loud.

Lena walks at the rear, her hand brushing the strap of the backpack she insisted on carrying.

She’s been here before.

Once with the search volunteers, once on her own.

She remembers the heat, the smell of sweat and bug spray, the sinking disappointment when they’d come back empty-handed.

Every rustle in the brush makes her turn her head, expecting something.

She keeps replaying the voice from the call in her mind, imagining the woman holding the phone, maybe in a locked bathroom, whispering before her, “Courage ran out.

” The trail narrows after half a mile, twisting around thick trunks and boulders gone green with moss.

Sunlight filters through in thin shafts striping the ground.

Lena notices a patch of earth that looks wrong, too flat, too smooth.

When she crouches, she sees bits of broken glass embedded in the soil, the kind you get from smashed jars or bottles.

Old, maybe? But why here? In the middle of nothing.

Heler notices it too, marks the spot on the GPS, and they keep going.

Minutes later, Mendoza stops abruptly, raising a hand.

Ahead, half hidden under a mat of leaves and branches, is something metallic, flat, unnatural in this setting.

They step closer.

The shape becomes clear, a steel hatch flush with the forest floor.

It’s about 4 ft square, the metal dulled and scratched, but the edges clean enough to show it’s been used recently.

Lena’s breath catches.

Heler kneels, brushing away debris.

There’s no visible lock, just a heavy latch and a recessed handle.

He glances at Mendoza.

This isn’t on any property map.

The air here feels different.

Still heavy, carrying a faint chemical tang.

Lena doesn’t know if it’s her imagination, but she thinks she hears something from beneath them.

A faint hum.

Mechanical.

Mendoza takes a slow step back, her hand hovering near her sidearm.

Sergeant, what are the odds this is just a storm shelter? Heler doesn’t answer.

He’s still staring at the latch, the metal cool under his palm.

The woman on the phone had said her husband has a bunker close to where they went missing.

They’re standing on it.

Heler doesn’t touch the latch right away.

He just crouches there, palm resting on the cold metal, listening.

That faint hum Lena thought she heard.

It’s real, low and constant, like the muffled vibration of a generator somewhere below.

Mendoza circles the hatch slowly, eyes scanning the forest floor.

No footprints, she says.

At least not fresh, but the way these leaves are laid.

Someone’s been covering this up.

Heler straightens, pulls his radio from his vest.

Dispatch, this is Sierra 32.

We’ve located a concealed structure matching the anonymous caller’s description.

Possible underground access.

Request backup and forensic team to our GPS location.

Static, then a voice.

Copy that, Sierra 32.

Units on route.

He looks at Lena.

You stay back until we know what we’re dealing with.

She nods, but her fingers grip the strap of her backpack tighter.

Every muscle in her body screams to be closer to see inside, to know if Khloe’s in there.

15 minutes later, the forest is alive with movement.

More deputies arriving.

Crime scene tape unspooling in yellow ribbons between trees.

A portable flood light is carried in, its harsh beam turning the hatch’s steel surface white.

Detective Ruiz from the county’s major crimes unit joins Heler at the hatch.

He’s a heavier man built like a lineman, but his movements are precise, methodical.

He kneels, running gloved fingers along the recessed handle.

No visible lock, Ruiz says.

That means whoever’s using it trusts they can keep people away some other way.

Secrecy, intimidation, or they just don’t expect anyone to find it.

Two deputies bring over a pry bar and a crowbar set.

Ruiz wedges the thicker tool into the seam and leans his weight on it.

The hatch groans, but doesn’t open.

That’s solid, Mendoza mutters.

Reinforced from underneath, Ruiz says we’ll have to break the latch.

The metallic snap when the latch gives way echoes strangely in the forest.

A sharp, unnatural sound against the hush of wind and pine needles.

Ruiz lifts the hatch.

Cold, stale air spills out immediately, carrying a faint odor that makes Lena’s stomach twist.

damp concrete, metal, and something faintly sweet but rotten underneath.

The flood lights beam cuts down into a narrow shaft lined with wood paneling.

A metal ladder drops into shadow.

The hum of the generator grows louder, vibrating through the rungs.

Gas powered by the sound, Ruiz says, means someone’s been down here recently enough to refuel it.

Heler leans over the opening.

Two in front, weapons ready.

Mendoza, your third.

I’ll follow.

A deputy with a carbine slung over his chest swings onto the ladder first.

Boots clank on metal rungs as he descends.

His voice comes up a moment later.

Bottom clear so far.

Concrete floor.

One door to the east.

Go, Heler orders.

The rest follow their movements careful, deliberate.

When Heler’s boots hit the concrete, the air changes again, heavier, pressing against the lungs.

The space is just high enough to stand upright.

Walls lined with exposed wiring and shelves holding canned goods, water jugs, and stacks of cardboard boxes.

The deputy at the front signals them toward the only door.

It’s steel painted beige with a heavy deadbolt.

Ruiz glances back at Heler.

If this matches the caller’s claim, there could be victims or remains on the other side.

Cameras up.

Two body cams blink red as they’re switched on.

The deadbolt is stiff, but it turns with a loud metallic clunk.

Ruiz pushes the door inward.

The room beyond is lit by a single bare bulb.

It’s light yellow and weak.

Against one wall, four cotss sit in a row.

Their thin mattresses covered in mismatched sheets.

One set with cartoon animals, one plain blue, one floral, one striped.

Each cot has a pillow.

Each pillow has an indentation as if someone had been lying there not long ago.

Lena, still at the bottom of the ladder, but craning to see, clamps a hand over her mouth.

At the foot of each bed is a pair of shoes, sneakers, sandals, canvas slip-ons arranged neatly, toes pointing out.

They’re scuffed and dirty, but the pattern is too deliberate to be random.

On a wooden chair in the corner sits a pile of folded clothes, Camp Sierra Pines T-shirts, their green lettering crisp and unfaded, impossible if they’d been outside for 2 years.

Mendoza’s voice is hushed.

These belong to the girls.

Heler kneels by the clothes, his gloved hands hesitating before touching them.

The fabric is cool, the folds sharp.

Whoever kept them like this wanted them clean, ready.

On the far wall, a calendar hangs from a nail.

Each day is marked with an X in black marker.

The last date crossed out is from just 3 days ago.

3 days, Ruiz murmurs.

If they were here, it wasn’t long ago.

Lena can’t stand it anymore.

She steps into the room despite Heler’s warning.

Her eyes dart from bed to bed, shirt to shirt, looking for something, anything that belonged to Khloe.

Then she sees it, the blue canvas sneakers with the frayed white laces.

Her throat closes.

Kloe had begged their mom for those shoes before camp.

She’d worn them in every photo that summer.

Lena kneels, her hands hovering over the sneakers, not quite able to touch.

The sight of them here, not in a landfill, not in some evidence bag, but lined up like their owner might return any second, feels like a punch to the chest.

Mendoza’s flashlight beam catches on something near the CS, a scrap of lined paper under one bed.

She crouches, retrieves it carefully.

It’s a note written in looping, uncertain handwriting.

We can’t see the sky.

Please tell my mom I’m sorry.

There’s no name, but Lena knows Khloe’s handwriting.

Her knees go weak.

She sits down hard on the concrete, clutching the note like it’s a lifeline.

The team moves deeper into the room, checking a small al cove behind a curtain.

There’s a portable toilet, a crate of bottled water, and shelves of canned beans, fruit, and soup.

A battered DVD player sits on a low table next to a stack of discs in plastic sleeves.

Ruiz picks one up.

The label is written in the same handwriting as the note.

Movie night number 12.

Could be harmless, Ruiz says, but there’s no conviction in his voice.

Heler signals for a crime scene team to be brought down.

To Lena, the bunker feels like it’s closing in.

Every inch of it screams captivity.

The airless smell, the low ceiling, the rows of beds like a dormatory in hell.

She stands near the ladder, one hand gripping the rung.

If Khloe had been here, if she’d slept on that cot, if she’d written that note, where is she now? Above them, the forest is just a whisper through the open hatch.

Down here, it feels like another world, one where the missing girls might have been alive far longer than anyone dared to hope.

As they prepare to clear a second, smaller door at the rear of the bunker, Ruiz looks back at Heler.

If the caller was telling the truth about her husband, this is just the surface.

The real answers might be behind that door.

Heler nods, motions for the team to stack up.

Lena can hear her own heartbeat in her ears as the first deputy reaches for the handle.

The deputies stack up at the rear door.

It’s smaller than the first, not steel, but heavy wood reinforced with a metal strip along the latch side.

Ruiz tests the handle.

Locked.

He glances at Heler, who nods.

Do it.

The first blow from the ram splinters the wood near the hinges.

The second knocks the door inward.

A wave of air rolls out, damp, sour, with a faint copper tang that makes Lena step back instinctively.

The room beyond is narrower than the main chamber, maybe 6 ft wide, 10 ft long.

The ceiling is lower, the walls lined with plywood that’s warped and stained.

Against the right wall, three large plastic storage bins sit side by side, their lids secured with heavy duct tape.

The tape is frayed in places, the glue dried and curling at the edges, but the bins themselves look used.

Recently, Ruiz motions to a deputy with gloves and a camera.

Photograph before you touch anything.

The camera’s flash pops, momentarily bleaching the details before plunging them back into the yellow glow of the single bulb.

Heler moves to the left wall where a metal shelving unit leans under the weight of things.

It takes him a moment to process what he’s looking at.

On the top shelf, four backpacks, different colors, different brands, but all with the Camp Sierra Pines logo stitched on the front.

The fabric is stiff with dust, but one still has a faded friendship bracelet tied to the zipper pull.

Below that, a row of stainless steel water bottles, all with peeling camp stickers.

And under those, a tangle of fabric that when Heler pulls it free, turns out to be sleeping bags.

Each is a different pattern.

Purple stars, blue plaid, yellow ducks, red swirls.

They smell faintly of mildew, but when he unrolls one halfway, a small photograph slips out.

A candid shot of four girls standing in front of the camp’s messaul, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, the redwood trees towering behind them.

Lena’s hand flies to her mouth.

She knows the photo.

Her parents had a copy framed on the mantle until the day they couldn’t bear to look at it anymore.

Ruiz moves to the bins.

The tape peels back with a sticky, tearing sound.

Inside the first, clothing.

Piles of it.

Some pieces still folded, others baldled up like they’d been shoved inside quickly.

There are t-shirts, shorts, pajamas, all children’s sizes.

The second bin holds blankets, thin and worn, and a heap of stuffed animals.

A few have their button eyes missing.

One is a faded plush fox, its tail half detached.

The third bin is the one that makes Ruiz pause.

He lifts the lid just enough to see inside, then lowers it again, jaw tightening.

Evidence text will process this.

No one asks what it is.

Not yet.

But the change in his voice says, “Enough.” Near the back corner, a small desk is pushed against the wall.

It holds a spiralbound notebook open to a page covered in neat blocky handwriting.

The entries are dated.

The most recent is just over a week ago.

Day 702.

Food delivery late.

Girls upset.

Told them they’ll go outside soon.

Need to fix the vent before summer heat.

Heler flips back through the pages.

The earliest entries are from 2 years ago, days after the official disappearance date.

They’re written in a matter-of-fact tone, like a worklog.

Day two, all four in place, no issues, kept lights off until dark.

Day nine, one crying at night, others quiet.

Day 30, added more water jugs.

We’ll need another run to town soon.

The neatness of the writing, the calm language, it makes Lena shiver.

Whoever kept this log wasn’t panicked.

They were planning, maintaining.

In the corner opposite the desk, there’s something else.

A locked metal cabinet waist high.

The paint is scratched.

The padlock dull with age.

Get me cutters, Ruiz says.

When the lock snaps and the doors swing open, the smell hits immediately.

Stale and chemical, like old cleaning fluid mixed with something sharp.

Inside are rows of plastic jugs, each labeled with black marker.

Bleach, lime, peroxide.

On the bottom shelf, there’s a roll of thick plastic sheeting, heavyduty gloves, and a pack of zip ties.

No one speaks for a moment.

Lena turns away, staring hard at the concrete floor as if looking anywhere else might undo what she’s just seen.

Where’s the generator? Heler finally asks.

It’s behind a second door.

This one leading into a narrow al cove.

The generator is a squat, noisy beast with a faint trail of gasoline smell.

There’s also a folding chair facing a small monitor mounted to the wall.

The monitor is split into four grainy camera feeds.

One shows the ladder up to the hatch.

Another shows the path leading toward the main trail.

The third shows a road shoulder, cracked asphalt, and a faded yellow line.

The fourth is static.

Ruiz leans closer.

If this thing’s been running, someone’s been watching for visitors.

Lena’s voice is small.

Does this mean they were here? All of them? Ruiz hesitates.

It means they were here at some point.

The words land like a stone in her stomach.

She looks back toward the CS in the main chamber, the note clutched in her hand from earlier.

If Khloe wrote it, it means she was alive long enough to know she might never see the sky again.

The crime scene team begins sealing evidence bags, labeling boxes, photographing every angle.

Heler steps aside to radio in the preliminary report to the captain.

Caller’s tip was accurate.

Concealed underground structure outfitted for long-term holding of multiple individuals.

Personal effects confirm connection to Sierra Pine’s case.

When he hangs up, Ruiz joins him.

If the wife’s telling the truth, our guy has to be local.

knows the terrain, knows how to avoid searches, someone who blends.

Heler glances at Lena, then back at Ruiz.

If he’s married, she might still be in danger.

And if he’s keeping people alive somewhere else.

We need to move fast, Ruiz finishes.

Up top, the sun is sliding lower, sending shafts of light through the trees.

When Lena climbs out of the hatch, the forest feels different.

too still.

Her mind keeps circling back to one question.

If the wife knew enough to call, what finally made her break the silence after two years? She’s still thinking about it when a deputy emerges from the trees holding up a hand.

Detective, we’ve got tire tracks, fresh ones, just off the service road.

Ruiz and Heler exchange a look.

It’s the first real trail that might lead them to the man behind this.

and maybe if there’s any chance left to the girls.

The tire tracks curve away from the service road, cutting into the undergrowth before disappearing into the shadow of the trees.

They’re deep, the tread sharp, the dirt still crumbling at the edges.

Ruiz kneels, running a gloved finger along the groove.

These are fresh hours, maybe less, which means he could still be close, Heler says.

A deputy moves in with a DSLR camera, snapping the tread pattern from multiple angles.

Another crouches beside him with a tape measure.

Widths wide, the deputy reports.

Full-size pickup or SUV.

Mendoza glances toward the hatch.

If he knows we found this place, Heler doesn’t need her to finish.

The suspect could already be on the move, either to flee or to make sure nothing else is found.

The decision comes fast.

Two units stay behind to secure the bunker.

The rest fan out along the service road in both directions.

Lena watches them go, her hands jammed deep into her jacket pockets.

She doesn’t want to leave the site, but Heler insists she ride in the lead SUV with him and Ruiz.

If he’s still out here, you’re not staying in the open, he tells her.

They roll slowly along the cracked asphalt, following the occasional scuff in the gravel shoulder where the tires have clipped the edge.

The forest is dense on both sides, branches dipping low over the road.

Every so often, sunlight flares through the canopy, throwing long, jagged shadows across their path.

After 15 minutes, the tracks veer off again.

This time onto a narrow, rudded trail barely wide enough for a single vehicle.

Mendoza in the car behind them calls over the radio.

If he’s got a hideout back here, it’s off the grid.

No power lines, no neighbors.

Heler makes the turn.

The SUV bumps and sways over roots and rocks.

Pine needles whispering against the doors.

Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker hammers against a trunk.

A sharp hollow rhythm that feels too loud in the hush.

The trail ends in a clearing.

At first, it looks empty, just a flattened patch of dirt ringed by trees.

Then Ruiz spots it.

A low shed, weathered gray with a metal roof glinting dully in the sun.

Beside it, a battered pickup sits half in shadow, mud spattered up its sides.

Heler kills the engine.

Matches the tread.

The deputy with the camera crouches by the rear tire, checks the images on his screen, and nods.

It’s him.

They move in with weapons drawn.

The shed door hangs slightly open, creaking when the wind catches it.

Inside, the light is dim, filtering through cracks in the walls.

A workbench runs along one side, littered with tools, hammers, pliers, a coil of heavy rope.

Shelves hold plastic storage bins, gas cans, and rolls of duct tape.

In the corner, a wood stove squats cold and rusting.

Above it, tacked to the wall with a bent nail, is a Polaroid photo.

It shows a man in his late 40s, tall, broadshouldered, standing beside a much younger woman with her hair tied back.

Both are smiling for the camera, but the woman’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

Mendoza takes a closer look.

This the wife.

Heler stares at the photo, then pulls out his phone and opens the file on the anonymous call.

The voice had been distorted in playback, but the rhythm of the speech, the hesitations, they match the tension in the woman’s eyes.

“It’s her,” he says quietly.

On a shelf beneath the photo sits a small spiralbound notebook, not like the meticulous log in the bunker, but a jumble of handwritten notes, supply lists, dates, reminders.

One line stands out.

August 14th, move her before the frost.

her.

Ruiz repeats under his breath.

Singular.

That means at least one girl was alive when he wrote this.

The date is from just three months ago.

They hear it then.

The low, distant rumble of an engine.

Mendoza is at the doorway in an instant, scanning the treeine.

A dark shape flickers between the trunks, moving fast.

Pickup, she calls.

Coming this way.

The team scrambles, fanning out to take cover behind the shed and vehicles.

The sound grows louder, the shape resolving into a full-size truck.

Not the one in the clearing, but a different make and color.

This one dark green with a dented front fender.

It slows as it enters the clearing.

For a heartbeat, the driver’s face is visible through the windshield.

A man with a square jaw, closecropped hair, eyes scanning the scene.

Then he sees them.

The truck surges forward, tires spitting dirt.

“Stop the vehicle!” Ruiz shouts, his voice cracking the stillness.

Instead, the truck jerks toward the narrow trail, fishtailing as it tears away.

“Mendoza is already in the driver’s seat of the lead SUV, Heler sliding in beside her.

Lena is shoved into the back by a deputy before she can protest.

The chase is fast and brutal.

The trail barely wide enough.

branches clawing at the mirrors, the tires biting into loose dirt.

The truck ahead swerves violently to avoid a stump, then barrels through a shallow ditch, mud spraying in arcs.

Over the radio, a deputy in the second SUV calls out, “Tag is partially covered.

Looks like tape over the plate.” A quarter mile in, the trail forks.

The truck takes the left.

Mendoza follows without hesitation, the SUV jarring over exposed roots.

They burst into another clearing, this one smaller, ringed by thicket of blackberry brambles.

The truck skids to a stop.

The driver’s door flies open and the man jumps out, disappearing into the trees.

On foot, Heler yells, leaping from the SUV.

Ruiz and two deputies follow.

Lena stays in the back seat, heart hammering, watching the gap where he vanished.

The forest swallows the sound of pursuit quickly.

Just the occasional snap of a branch, the faint shouts of the deputies.

Mendoza circles the truck, checking the bed.

It’s empty except for a blue tarp and a dented cooler.

Inside the cab, she finds a crumpled flannel shirt on the passenger seat, a pack of cigarettes in the console, and a half empty bottle of water on the floor.

The keys are still in the ignition.

15 minutes later, Heler and Ruiz return empty-handed.

“He knows the terrain,” Heler says, breathing hard.

“Could have a dozen hideouts in these woods.” He leans against the truck, scanning the interior again.

And that’s when he spots it.

A small pink hair tie looped around the gearshift.

It’s frayed, stretched thin, and tied into the elastic is a single blonde hair.

Lena sees it, too.

Her breath catches.

“Chloe’s,” she whispers.

They bag the hair tie, photograph the truck, and call in a toe to impound it for a full forensic sweep.

As the sun dips lower, the air cools.

Shadows lengthen across the clearing.

Somewhere out here, the man is watching them.

And somewhere, if the wife’s call was true, at least one girl is still alive.

That night, back at the sheriff’s office, the forensics lab begins working on the hair.

The match to Khloe will take time, but in the meantime, Heler pushes for the wife’s ID to go public internally.

When her driver’s license photo comes up on the monitor, it’s the same woman from the Polaroid.

Her name Aaron Callaway, age 32, no criminal record, married to Mark Callaway for 8 years.

Mark fits the physical description from the truck sighting.

He’s a lifelong local.

Worked as a heavy equipment operator, did seasonal maintenance for Camp Sierra Pines in the summers before it closed.

Lena stares at his photo, the square jaw, the closecropped hair, and wonders how many times her sister might have looked into that face over the past 2 years.

Heler studies Aaron’s file.

If she’s still alive, she’s the key.

She knows where he is.

But if she’s running scared, she’s not going to answer the front door for us.

Ruiz nods.

We’ll have to find her before he finds her.

And somewhere in the woods, Mark Callaway is already making his next move.

The motel room smells like bleach and cigarette smoke.

Aaron sits on the edge of the bed, one hand wrapped tight around the strap of her purse, the other pressed flat against her thigh to stop the shaking.

She’s been here for three nights.

No TV, no lights after dark, curtains drawn tight.

Every time a car pulls into the gravel lot outside, she freezes, listening to the sound of the engine, the slam of the door, the muffled voices.

In her head, it’s always him.

The burner phone lies face down on the nightstand.

She hasn’t touched it since the call, not because she doesn’t want to, but because she’s terrified he might somehow hear her voice again, trace her somehow.

It took her three weeks to work up the courage to make that call.

Three weeks of replaying the sound she’d heard in the bunker on the edge of their property.

Muffled crying girls voices.

She told herself she was imagining it.

That the girls from the news couldn’t possibly be there.

But then she found the shoe, a small scuffed sneaker lying under a tarp in his truck bed.

Mark had always been a man of routines.

Out before dawn, back before dark, tools cleaned, boots lined up by the back door.

But over the past 2 years, the routines had shifted.

Trips into the woods at odd hours, longer absences, his truck loaded with supplies.

When she asked questions, his answers were short.

Job up north? Helping a friend.

Don’t worry about it.

And if she pressed too hard, his voice dropped into that low, dangerous tone.

the one that made her step back.

The last fight they had before she left had been about the basement.

She wasn’t allowed down there.

Never had been.

But that night, she’d heard the door at the bottom slam and the sound of heavy bolt sliding.

When he came up, his face was calm, but his knuckles were white.

“Stay out of my work,” he told her.

“You don’t want to know what’s down there.” That night, she packed a bag.

She didn’t leave right away.

She knew if she walked out in the middle of the night, he’d hear her.

Instead, she waited until morning when he left in the truck, then grabbed her purse and drove straight out of town.

Now in the dim motel room, she wonders if it even matters.

He’s smart, knows these woods better than anyone, knows how to vanish, and if he figures out she made the call.

Her stomach twists.

She closes her eyes and takes slow breaths, counting them out the way she used to when he was in one of his moods.

In the sheriff’s office, Heler stands over a table littered with photos.

The bunker, the CS, the shoes, the hair tie from the green truck.

Ruiz is on the phone with the state police trying to fasttrack an APB on Mark Callaway’s vehicles.

We put Aaron’s picture out to every hotel and shelter within a 100 miles.

Heler says, “If she’s hiding, she’s doing it alone.

No family in state.

” Mendoza adds, “If she’s scared enough to call, she’s scared enough to run.” “We need her alive, Sergeant.” They find the lead in the least likely place.

A motel clerk in a town 30 mi north calls in saying, “A woman matching Aaron’s photo paid cash for a room 3 days ago.

She used a false name, but the clerk remembered her because she asked for the room farthest from the road.

“She’s still here,” the clerk whispers over the line.

“I saw her walk to the vending machine this morning.” “Heler, Ruiz, and Mendoza roll up to the motel just after dusk.

The sign buzzes faintly, the neon vacancy flickering between red and dead.

The clerk points them toward the last unit on the row.

As they approach, Heler knocks softly.

Aaron, my name is Tom Heler.

We’re here to help you.

We need to talk about your husband.

Silence.

Then the sound of movement inside.

A quick shuffle of feet.

The scrape of something against the floor.

“Aaron, please,” Mendoza says, her voice low and steady.

“You’re not in trouble, but the girls, if any of them are still alive, we don’t have time.” The lock clicks.

The door opens 2 in.

Aaron’s face appears in the gap, pale eyes darting between them.

“You can’t be here,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“If he finds out, he’s already running,” Heler cuts in.

“We found the bunker.

We know about the girls.

You’re the only one who can tell us where he’s keeping them now.” Her gaze flickers, her knuckles white on the door frame.

“I can’t.” “You can,” Ru says.

and you have to.

He’s not here to stop you anymore.

For a long moment, she just stands there breathing fast.

Then she opens the door wider.

The room is bare, bed unmade, a single duffel bag on the floor, the burner phone on the nightstand.

She sits on the edge of the bed, folding her hands tightly in her lap.

I didn’t know at first, she says.

I swear I didn’t.

I thought I thought he was hiding something else.

Drugs maybe.

But then I heard them.

She looks at Heler, her eyes wet but fierce.

I heard them crying.

I heard one of them asking for her mom.

Heler keeps his voice even.

Where? Another place.

Aaron says, “Not the bunker you found.

That was the first one.

He moved them after the last time you searched the woods.” Her voice drops.

It’s an old hunting cabin, his father’s, off a logging road near Miller’s Creek.

You can’t see it from the air because of the canopy.

He told me he could keep them there forever, and no one would find them.

Ruiz is already on the radio, calling for units to head toward Miller’s Creek.

Aaron grips the bedspread so hard her knuckles go white.

If you go there, you need to be careful.

He’s got traps, wires.

He says it’s to keep animals out, but but it’s for people.

Mendoza finishes.

Aaron nods.

Heler glances at Ruiz, then back at Aaron.

If he knows you’re gone, he’ll head there first.

Her voice cracks.

Then you have to beat him there.

Outside, the night is deepening.

The air smells of rain, heavy clouds blotting out the stars.

As they load back into the SUVs, Heler catches Lena’s eyes in the back seat.

She’s heard every word.

“Do you think Khloe’s there?” she asks.

Heler doesn’t lie.

If she’s anywhere, that’s where she’ll be.

The convoy pulls out, engines low, headlights off until they hit the main road.

Somewhere ahead, hidden in the dark, is a cabin that could hold the last chance to bring at least one of the camp girls home.

The convoy kills their headlights 2 miles from Miller’s Creek.

The gravel road is slick from the drizzle that’s been falling since they left the motel.

The smell of wet pine heavy in the air.

Heler leans forward in the passenger seat of the lead SUV, eyes scanning the GPS map on the dash.

We’re close.

Pull off here.

No sense driving right up.

The vehicles ease onto a narrow logging spur, tires crunching softly over wet gravel.

They park in a tight cluster, doors opening in unison.

The deputies move quickly, checking weapons, adjusting radios, pulling rain hoods over their heads.

Lena is told again to stay behind.

She doesn’t argue this time, not because she’s less determined, but because she understands what’s waiting out there isn’t meant for her to see first.

They start on foot.

The forest is dense.

The canopy blotting out the moonlight, turning the world into shades of black and gray.

Rain drips steadily through the branches, pattering on leaves, seeping into their collars.

Mendoza takes point.

her flashlight held low to avoid giving away their position.

After a hundred yards, she stops abruptly, raising a fist.

The beam of her light catches something across the trail, a thin strand of wire barely visible in the dim glow.

It’s stretched knee high between two saplings.

She crouches, following the wire with her eyes until it disappears into the brush.

Shotgun trap, she whispers.

trip it and it fires across the trail.

He wasn’t kidding about keeping people out.

Ruiz nods to a deputy carrying cutters.

The wire is snipped.

The shotgun half buried in a crude wooden frame is unloaded and set aside for evidence.

They move on slower now, every step cautious.

The second trap is crrudder, a cluster of sharpened stakes hidden under a layer of leaves.

The rain has darkened the wood, making them almost invisible.

Heler mutters.

This isn’t for animals.

This is war zone stuff.

They dismantle it carefully, piling the stakes to the side.

Another 100 yards, and the terrain begins to slope upward.

The air feels heavier here, muffled, as if the forest itself is holding its breath.

Mendoza halts again, crouching low.

I’ve got eyes on a light source.

about 50 yards out.

Through the trees, a faint amber glow waivers.

Fire light or maybe an old lantern.

It’s steady enough to suggest it’s indoors.

Heler signals for the team to fan out, approaching from multiple angles.

The sound of the creek is faint now, just a soft rush behind them.

As they close in, the outline of the cabin emerges from the darkness.

It’s small, one story, with a metal roof slick from the rain.

The boards are weathered, the front porch sagging under the weight of years.

A single window on the front shows the glow they saw.

A kerosene lamp on a table inside.

No movement, no sound.

They pause at the treeine 40 ft from the porch.

The rain is lighter here, the canopy breaking it into a fine mist.

Heler raises his binoculars, scanning the door, the windows, the ground around the cabin.

His gaze stops at the porch steps.

mud, fresh footprints.

Some lead up to the door, some lead away toward the back, disappearing into the brush.

Ruiz moves in close.

Could be him.

Could be one of the girls if she got out.

Mendoza’s voice is barely audible.

If she got out, why didn’t she run all the way? Heler lowers the binoculars.

Because maybe she didn’t make it far.

They split.

Ruiz and two deputies circle to the back.

Heler, Mendoza, and another deputy approach the front porch.

The boards creek under their boots.

The door is closed, but not locked.

Heler takes a breath, then pushes it open slowly.

The smell hits first.

Damp wood, kerosene, and something faintly metallic.

The single room is lit by the lamp on the table.

Its light catching on a scattering of objects.

A tin plate with halfeaten food, a metal cup, steam still curling from the rim, a wool blanket crumpled on the floor near the table.

Against the far wall, is a cot, the mattress sunken, the sheet twisted.

And on the cot, tucked into the rumpled bedding, is a small pink sweater.

It’s dry, warm, recently worn.

Mendoza’s eyes meet Helers’s.

She’s here, or she was.

They move deeper in, checking the corners, the closet, the small wood stove in the corner.

No sign of anyone.

From the back of the cabin, Ruiz’s voice comes through on the radio.

We’ve got fresh tracks heading west from the back door.

Smaller set alongside a larger one.

Heler answers, “How fresh? Minutes, maybe less.” Heler looks at Mendoza.

He’s here.

Outside, the rain has stopped.

The air feels charged, every sound amplified, the drip of water from the eaves, the distant crack of a branch.

The team regroups on the backside of the cabin, flashlights sweeping the ground.

The prints are clear in the mud, one set from heavy boots, the other from sneakers with worn soles.

Lena’s voice comes suddenly from the radio, tight with urgency.

She’s still with the vehicles, but a deputy posted with her just spotted movement in the trees to the west.

Dark jacket moving fast, she says.

Looked like he was pulling someone along.

The chase begins again.

They move quickly but carefully.

The mud slick underfoot, the path twisting through dense undergrowth.

The smaller prints are erratic now, sometimes dragging as if the person is being half carried.

Then ahead through a break in the trees.

Movement.

A dark shape hunched.

One arm gripping something at his side.

Mendoza shouts, “Sheriff’s Department, stop!” The shape freezes for a fraction of a second, then bolts into the thicker woods.

The team surges forward, the forest exploding with the sound of pursuit.

Branches whip against their faces, roots grab at their boots.

Heler catches a glimpse again, the flash of the man’s profile, the pale blur of a face beside him.

A girl’s face.

The forest is a blur.

Black trunks, wet branches, the sharp slap of rain soaked leaves against faces.

Mark Callaway moves with the desperation of a man who knows the ground better than anyone chasing him.

His boots slam through puddles, grip at roots without hesitation.

In his left hand, he grips the thin wrist of a girl.

She stumbles, half-dragged, her sneakers slipping in the mud.

Every few steps she catches herself only to be yanked forward again.

Keep up, he growls, voice low, urgent.

From her perspective, the night is all sound and pain.

The weise of her own breath, the sting of cold air in her lungs, the jolt in her shoulder every time he pulls too hard.

Her feet ache, her socks soaked.

She hasn’t seen the sky in days, maybe weeks.

And now the trees seem endless, closing in from every side.

Somewhere behind them, voices shout her name.

She doesn’t dare answer.

Heler is 20 ft back, heart pounding, his eyes fixed on the moving shadows ahead.

Every time the beam of his flashlight sweeps forward, it catches the pale flash of the girl’s sweater.

“Mendoza, cut left,” he yells.

“He’s angling for the creek.” Ru’s voice comes through the radio, short of breath.

We’ve got him pinched between us and the ridge.

Don’t let him get to the water.

Mark hears them, too.

His grip tightens on the girl’s wrist, pulling her toward a thicket.

He pushes through the branches clawing at his jacket and emerges on the muddy bank of a narrow creek.

The water churns from the earlier rain, brown and fast.

He hesitates just long enough to calculate, cross and lose the trail or double back.

The girl uses the moment to wrench her arm.

It’s not much, but it makes him lose balance for a second.

Heler bursts through the thicket.

Mark, it’s over.

Mark spins, putting the girl in front of him like a shield.

His right hand slips into his jacket pocket.

When it comes out, there’s the glint of a short-bladed knife.

She’s coming with me, he shouts.

His voice is ragged, breath steaming in the cold air.

You’ve got nowhere to go, Heler says, stepping forward slowly, hands spread.

You know how this ends if you keep running.

The girl’s legs are trembling.

She can feel Mark’s arm like a vice across her chest.

Her mind flashes to the calendar in the bunker.

The days marked off.

She doesn’t know what day it is now.

She only knows that this is her one chance.

Behind Mark, Mendoza emerges from the trees, moving silent as a shadow.

Ruiz comes in from the right, his weapon raised but steady.

Mark’s eyes flick between them, calculating.

You back off or she gets hurt, he warns.

No one’s backing off, Heler says.

You let her go, we’ll talk.

Mark’s laugh is short, ugly.

Talk? You’ve been looking for me for 2 years.

I know what talk means.

The girl feels his grip loosen slightly as he shifts the knife in his hand.

She doesn’t think, she just moves.

Her heel slams down on his boot hard.

He swears, his arm tightening instinctively, but it’s enough to make him stumble forward.

Heler lunges.

It’s chaos.

The splash of water as they crash into the shallows.

The knife skittering across the rocks.

The girl pulled sideways by Mendoza’s arm.

“Got her!” Mendoza shouts, hauling her up the bank.

Mark thrashes in the creek, shoving at Heler, trying to scramble for the knife.

Ruiz wades in, grabbing Mark by the collar and yanking him back hard.

The fight is short and brutal.

By the time they drag him to the bank, his hands are cuffed behind him, his chest heaving.

His eyes dart between them, furious and unblinking.

“You have no idea what you’ve just done,” he spits.

Heler ignores him, turning to the girl.

She’s wrapped in Mendoza’s jacket now, shivering, her eyes wide and glassy.

“What’s your name?” Heler asks softly.

She hesitates, her lips part.

“Clare,” she whispers.

Lena is there seconds later, breathless from the run.

When she sees Clare, she freezes.

“It’s not Chloe, but it’s one of the four.” Clare looks at her, recognition flickering.

You’re her sister.

Lena’s knees almost give out.

She crouches, taking Clare’s cold hands and hers.

“Where’s Chloe? Is she alive?” Clare’s gaze drops to the ground.

She swallows hard.

“I don’t know,” she says.

He took her away months ago.

The words hit like a physical blow.

But Heler knows they can’t stop here.

The rest of the girls could still be somewhere.

Mendoza, get her to the medic team, he orders.

Ruiz, take Callaway to holding.

Don’t let him say a word without me in the room.

Mark’s smile is faint but chilling.

You think she’s the only one who can’t tell you where they are? Heler leans in close.

We’ll see how much you talk when you’re not the one holding the knife.

As Clare is led away, Lena watches her go, a mix of relief and dread churning in her chest.

They have one girl back, but Khloe and maybe the others are still missing.

And now Mark Callaway is in custody, which means it’s time to see what he’ll give up or what Aaron can tell them that he won’t.

Mark Callaway was brought into custody just before midnight.

The next morning, investigators sat him down in a cold interrogation room.

The evidence from the past 48 hours laid out in front of him.

photographs of the bunker, the pink sweater from the hunting cabin, the hair tie from his truck, and a list of every item that tied him directly to the camp girls.

They asked him where Khloe Moore was.

Mark leaned back in his chair, smirking, and said nothing.

When they pressed him, he laughed.

You’ve been looking for me for 2 years.

I know how this works.

You don’t have all of them, and maybe you never will.

He denied knowing anything about the girl’s current whereabouts.

Denied that the bunker was used for holding anyone.

Denied that Clare had been with him willingly.

Everything was a flat wall of refusal.

But one slip caught Heler’s attention.

When shown the pink hair tie, Mark said, “Cute kid.

Always wanted to explore.” It was the first time he acknowledged Khloe in the present tense.

While Mark was shutting down in one room, his wife Aaron was finally talking in another.

safe in a protected location.

She told investigators she had suspected something for months, but had been too afraid to act.

She described overhearing muffled crying from the basement of their home and finding a small sneaker hidden under a tarp in the bed of Mark’s truck.

When investigators told her they had found the bunker, Aaron shook her head.

“That was the first place,” she said quietly.

“He moved them after the last search.” According to her, Khloe and possibly another girl had been relocated to a second site, an old hunting cabin Mark’s father once used, miles deeper into the hills.

The location was remote, off a fork in a dirt road past the old mill and close to an abandoned quarry.

Aaron warned them about traps along the approach.

“He says they’re for animals,” she told them, “but they’re not.” Heler now had two paths.

Mark, who might let something slip if pushed hard enough, and Aaron, who had just given them their first concrete lead in months.

But Mark wasn’t giving them a location.

Instead, he tried to bargain, offering to reveal where the girls were if he could see Aaron face to face.

The request was denied immediately.

Time was now the enemy.

If Aaron was right about Mark’s habits, he might already be heading toward the cabin to move Kloe again, or worse.

By midm morning, two search teams were mobilizing.

One would approach the quarry road from the south, the other from the north in case the ridge trail had multiple access points.

Aaron sketched a rough map from memory, a twisting dirt track, a fork, a steep climb toward the ridge.

She couldn’t pinpoint exactly where the cabin sat, but she marked the general area with a trembling hand.

Her last words to Heler before the convoy left were stark.

If you get there and the place is empty, you’re already too late.

In the lead SUV, Lena held the photocopy of Aaron’s map in her lap, her fingers tracing the lines over and over.

The ridge road wasn’t far from where Kloe had disappeared 2 years earlier.

If the map was right, her sister could be waiting at the end of it, or she could already be gone.

The convoy reached the turnoff to the quarry road just after a.m.

Clouds hung low over the hills, the kind that made the air feel heavy, pressing down on every step.

The rain from earlier had turned the dirt into a slick, uneven mess, making the drive slow.

At the fork Aaron had drawn on her map, Heler ordered both SUVs to cut their engines.

From here, they would move on foot.

If Mark had set traps the way Aaron warned, a roaring engine could be enough to alert him from half a mile away.

They advanced in a tight column, boots sinking into wet earth, the forest closing in on either side.

The sound of the creek was faint but constant, a low murmur somewhere below the ridge.

Every so often the wind would shift and bring with it the scent of wet pine mixed with something sharper, the tang of rust or oil.

It didn’t take long to find the first sign that Aaron had been telling the truth.

Across the narrow trail, just above ankle height, was a strand of wire stretched between two saplings.

On one side, the wire disappeared into a crude wooden frame hidden under moss.

On the other, into a set of eyelets nailed to a tree trunk.

Ruiz knelt and eased the moss away, revealing the barrel of a 12- gauge shotgun sawed short, aimed directly across the trail.

It was loaded.

Safety off.

The trap was disarmed carefully and set aside.

They pressed on every set of eyes scanning the ground and trees for the next danger.

A few hundred yards later, the trail narrowed, hemmed in by thick blackberry brambles.

At the choke point, Mendoza spotted a pit just off to the right, partially covered with rotting branches and leaves.

Beneath the cover were sharpened stakes driven into the earth.

It was old school but lethal.

It confirmed what they already suspected.

Whoever came this way uninvited was not meant to leave.

Beyond the pit, the incline steepened.

The path switched back and forth between dense clusters of oak and pine.

The air colder here, the canopy thicker.

Heler’s radio crackled.

The second team coming in from the other side of the ridge had found tire ruts.

old ones, but they led in the same direction.

Every step now carried a sense of countdown.

The map Aaron had drawn showed only a rough estimate, but Heler could feel they were closing in.

Then they saw it.

Through the trees ahead, the outline of a small structure began to take shape.

Dark wood, a sloped roof, a chimney leaning at an angle.

It sat in a clearing no larger than a tennis court, surrounded by piles of cut logs that had gone silver with age.

A single curtain fluttered in the cabin’s lone window.

There was no smoke from the chimney.

No visible movement.

They stopped at the edge of the clearing.

Heler scanned the ground between them and the porch.

Mud scattered branches and two sets of footprints, one much smaller than the other.

They led straight to the front steps.

Fresh, Ruiz murmured.

Within hours, the smaller prints had a faint zigzag to them as if the person had been unsteady.

The team split, half circling wide to cover the back, the other half moving with Heller toward the front.

The boards of the porch were warped, slick from the rain.

The door was shut, but not latched.

A faint line of mud traced from the steps to the threshold.

Heler drew in a breath and pushed it open.

The interior smelled of damp wood and kerosene.

A single kerosene lamp burned on a small table, casting a weak amber glow across the room.

On the table was a tin plate with halfeaten food, bread, beans, something that had cooled to a greasy sheen.

Against the far wall sat a narrow cot, the blanket tangled, the pillow bearing a fresh indentation.

On the floor beside it was a small pair of canvas sneakers, mud still clinging to the soles.

Heler crouched and touched the fabric of the blanket.

Warm, he signaled for the others to check the corners, the small closet, the space beneath the cot.

Nothing.

No sign of struggle, no blood, but also no sign of Chloe.

At the back of the cabin, a second door opened onto a short set of steps leading down into the trees.

It was here that Ruiz found the clearest evidence yet.

A trail of prince, one large, one small, heading deeper into the forest.

Radio chatter came in from the rear team.

We’ve got movement about 200 yd west.

Looks like a man pulling someone with him.

Can’t confirm ID.

Heler’s reply was immediate.

Hold visual.

Do not engage until we’re in position.

They moved fast, slipping down the muddy slope, the trees whipping past.

The tracks were easy to follow now, the small prince sometimes dragging, the larger ones planted hard and deep.

Every instinct in Heler told him they were minutes behind.

The only question was whether they were closing the gap or being led into another trap.

At the bottom of the slope, the ground leveled out into a thin strip of clearing.

On the far side, a shadow moved.

Tall, broad-shouldered, one arm locked around the smaller figure beside him.

Mark Callaway, and the girl he was pulling through the mud had long, dark blonde hair.

Heler’s voice was low but sharp.

That’s her.

They were less than 100 ft away when Mark looked back.

For a heartbeat, his eyes locked with Hellers.

Then he yanked the girl hard and bolted into the deeper woods.

The chase was on again.

Mark Callaway crashed through the trees like a man who’d spent his life moving in this terrain.

His boots found the dry patches, the narrow gaps, the spots that made no sound.

But the girl, Khloe Moore, couldn’t match him.

Her sneakers slid in the mud.

Her knees buckled against roots.

Her breath came in short, panicked gasps.

Every stumble slowed him, and every stumble brought the law closer.

Heler’s boots pounded the ground just yards behind.

Ruiz angling to cut them off from the right.

Mendoza staying wide on the left.

The forest was alive with the sound of pursuit.

Shouts, breaking branches, the sharp rasp of breath.

They reached a fallen log slick with rain.

Mark vaulted it, dragging Khloe with him, but her foot caught.

She went down hard, one hand sinking into the mud.

That hesitation cost him.

Heler lunged over the log, catching Mark’s jacket at the shoulder.

The fabric ripped, but it broke his momentum long enough for Ruiz to slam into his side.

The three men went down in a tangle, sliding into the leaves.

Khloe scrambled away, gasping, her hands gripping the wet earth as Mendoza reached her.

“You’re safe,” Mendoza said quickly, her jacket already coming off to wrap around the girl.

“We’ve got you.” Mark fought like a cornered animal, his teeth bared, fists striking wherever they landed.

Heler absorbed a blow to the ribs, turned it into leverage, and wrenched Mark’s arm behind his back.

The cuffs clicked shut with a sound that seemed to punctuate two years of searching.

“You’re done,” Heler said, voice low, breath steaming in the cold air.

Mark only smiled, not wide, but enough to make Heler’s skin crawl.

Khloe was shaking so hard Mendoza had to steady her on the walk back to the ridge.

Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Is my sister here?” she asked.

Lena was waiting at the edge of the clearing, her hair plastered to her face from the rain.

When Khloe saw her, she stopped moving.

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

Then Khloe’s legs gave out, and Lena caught her.

They sank to their knees in the mud, holding on like they might never let go.

The medics moved in, checking Khloe’s vitals, asking her name, her age, if she could remember the last time she’d eaten.

She answered in short bursts, glancing off and toward Lena as if afraid she’d disappear.

When Heler crouched beside them, Khloe’s eyes darted to his.

“Are the others okay?” she asked.

He didn’t have the answer she wanted.

“We’re going to find them,” he said.

But you’re safe now.

That’s what matters today.

Mark was loaded into the back of a cruiser.

His head ducked, his expression unreadable.

Aaron Callaway, when told of his capture, didn’t cry.

She only asked one question.

Did you find all of them? When the answer came, “No, not yet.” She closed her eyes and nodded as if she’d expected it.

By nightfall, the ridge was empty again.

The cabin was sealed as a crime scene.

The traps cataloged, the evidence boxed and tagged.

Lena rode with Kloe in the back of the medic van.

The heater blew warm air, but Khloe still shivered under the blankets.

Lena kept her hand wrapped around her sisters, thumb brushing the knuckles.

She wanted to fill the silence with a hundred questions, but she didn’t.

There would be time for that later.

Or maybe there wouldn’t.

Right now, she just wanted Khloe to feel the weight of her hand, proof that she was here, that she was real.

The days that followed were a blur of interviews, medical exams, and news crews camped outside the sheriff’s office.

Clare and Khloe were reunited briefly, clinging to each other with the kind of understanding only they could share.

Mark Callaway was charged with multiple counts of kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, and aggravated assault.

He refused to give up the locations of the other two girls.

Search teams combed the hills and abandoned structures in a 20-mi radius.

Leads came in, most of them dead ends, but no one stopped looking.

On the third night after the rescue, Lena sat in Khloe’s hospital room.

The machines were quiet now, the only sound the steady rhythm of Khloe’s breathing.

A paper cup of water sat untouched on the table.

Beside it, folded neatly, was the same pink sweater they’d found in the cabin.

Khloe had asked to keep it close.

Lena reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from her sister’s forehead.

“You’re home now,” she whispered.

Khloe’s eyes opened slowly.

She looked at Lena for a long moment before saying, “Not all the way.” The words sank deep, the weight of what was still missing filling the space between them.

Two girls were still out there, and somewhere the man who had kept them hidden for so long still held their silence like a weapon.

In the years to come, people would remember the summer day in 2014 when four camp girls vanished into the redwoods.

They would remember the two years of unanswered questions, and they would remember the call from a woman who finally decided she couldn’t live with the truth she’d been hiding.

For Lena, the memory was simpler.

the cold mud of the ridge road, the sound of Khloe’s voice after two years of imagining it only in dreams, and the unshakable knowledge that until every one of those girls was home, the story wasn’t over.

Because sometimes in cases like this, safe is just the first step.